Among Enemies
by Galalastia Black Fyre
Summary: Well here it is the first three chapters of the sequel to Camille's Harry Potter and the Golden Serpent ( Please note that what is here right now is what has been already posted by Camille) My entry will be in shortly.
1. Chapter 1

|"All events, present or future, | |have been preconceived, whether as | |a dream, a theory, or even a joke. | |Nothing new comes into creation, | |but instead to creation comes a | |derivation of the past, and with | |each new creation, human, animal, | |or object, energy is transferred, | |not made.. | | | |An extremely powerful use of force | |requires the presence of an equally| |powerful catalyst energy.. | | | |It is our recommendation, after | |thirteen years of study, that | |further investigation be provided | |into the amazing survival of Harry | |Potter.. | | | |The mysteries and inconsistencies | |following the boy's life warrant | |further questioning of Mr. Potter's| |nature. | | | |.blatant fabrication of tales | |claiming the inconceivable | |innocence of Sirius Black. | | | |. the unconfirmed assailant in the | |murder of Cedric Diggory is still | |at large, and Potter is still | |claiming a ludicrous tale of | |placing responsibility upon | |He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.. | | | |. an unbalanced force is unhealthy | |to the fabric of our existence, and| |until the mysteries revolving | |around Harry Potter can be | |absolved, there is a present, if | |not clear, danger posed to our | |society. | | | |While our constituents are | |continuing to rejoice in the boy's | |survival, it is not our place to | |join in the celebrations, but to | |put aside the public sentiment and | |focus on the more pressing matter | |at hand: The implications of the | |boy's survival." |  
  
Minister Corneilius Fudge slowly lowered the report to his desk, and at the same time, reached into his pocket and withdrew a gray handkerchief, which he used to wipe the perspiration from his forehead.  
  
"You are not serious," he ordered as he jumped up, his eyes narrowed at the two before him. "This, this is utterly ridiculous! The very notion, the very thought!"  
  
The man before him took a step forward, placing his hands on Fudge's desk, and hunching over, so that he looked up at the Minister behind drooped eyelids.  
  
"We are not in the business of fooling around. The report is serious. Our findings are serious. Our request for your approval is serious," the man paused for a second, and then straightened, his white-blonde hair reflecting the dusk glow filtering through the office windows. "Serious as Avada Kedavra."  
  
Fudge flinched. "I don't know. I don't know," he mumbled, sitting into his chair, suddenly feeling the strength in his legs give out. He once again reached for the report, this time with trembling hands.  
  
"Serious as Avada Kedavra," Fudge murmured, staring at the report. "You question his motives then?"  
  
Lucius Malfoy stared at Fudge for a moment, a small smirk playing on the corner of his thin lips. "I question his existence. I question his future."  
  
Fudge stroked the bottom of his chin, breathing out a long and uncomfortable sigh. His eyes fell on the other person in the room, who had turned away from the desk and was looking at the far wall, where a floor to ceiling bookcase ran its length. It was filled to capacity with books, some withered and tattered, some new and still in their magi-seal casing. There were framed newspaper articles scattered along the shelves, and Fudge could see that the man was staring at the Daily Prophet article dated November 1, 1981.  
  
Fudge turned his attention back to Mr. Malfoy, who had sat in one of the high backed, velvet chairs that stood before the Minister's desk. Malfoy had his fingers tented before him, and was staring intently at Fudge.  
  
Holding back a shiver, Fudge preceded to continue the meeting. "Do you question his sister?" Fudge asked, realizing that not once Adrienne was mentioned in the report, although Dumbledore had informed Fudge about her existence earlier in the year, classified information which he had surreptitiously let leak to the Department of Mysteries.  
  
"She poses no threat," Lucius answered.  
  
"She's just as mysterious as Harry seems to be," Fudge argued, not moving.  
  
Lucius smiled an ominous grin that showed his perfectly white teeth. Fudge couldn't shake the feeling that Lucius was now mocking him.  
  
"She is not a parselmouth. She didn't claim a story that Sirius Black was innocent, and instead, the dead Peter Pettigrew had risen and confessed to assisting with the murder of Lily and James Potter. She did not disappear from the Tri-Wizard Tournament and return with a dead competitor, the only competitor that stood in the way of victory. And, may I remind you Minister, she did not vanquish the Dark Lord at the age of fifteen months. She is not under suspicion," Lucius said in a cold, slow drawl.  
  
Fudge looked away in thought, his hand moving from his chin to his mouth, where it rested on his lips in contemplation.  
  
"We have reason to believe that Harry Potter is a threat to us," Lucius continued. "And if he is a threat to us, he is a threat to you, Minister."  
  
Fudge turned back to stare at Lucius. "What do you mean by that?" he asked in a low voice, a slight growl appearing when it hadn't since he was a young man.  
  
"He means, Minister, that there is only one logical reason why He-Who-Must- Not-Be-Named would want to be rid of the boy." The other man had redirected his attention from the bookshelf and was striding over to the desk.  
  
"I'll give you one guess to what that reason would be," Lucius said, placing his folded hands at the edge of Fudge's desk.  
  
"You Know Who saw him as a threat," Fudge whispered, his eyes widening as the answer dawned on him.  
  
"Precisely," Lucius answered, leaning forward.  
  
"He knew, Minister, he knew something about little Harry Potter that no one else did. And we are only now beginning to piece it together," the other man answered, sitting down next to Lucius.  
  
"And it's becoming more visible with each year. Harry Potter could very well be the next Dark Lord," Lucius answered.  
  
Fudge didn't reply to this. He stayed sitting for a moment, staring at Lucius, but found that he could no longer look at the man, and instead drew himself up from the chair and walked around his desk, his Italian shoes making no noise on the thick carpeting.  
  
"Fudge, if we do not continue our investigation and Potter does indeed transform into a miniature replica of the Dark Lord, it will only be a matter of time before the public finds out that we, for all these years, had known about Potter, but never chose to investigate it further. The destruction of our way of life, our safe society, the world we have re- built, will lie solely upon your shoulders then, Fudge. It will be your head that hangs for it." Lucius' voice was silky and low, a menacing hiss resonating that Fudge didn't pick up on.  
  
Fudge stared at the article standing in a gold frame on the bookcase. The very article that had announced He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's defeat. Fudge slowly looked away, his eyes suddenly weary, not fixating on anything in particular, his mind racing.  
  
"Minister, you alone have the power to prevent the onslaught of another Dark Era. If we can prove Potter's true intentions, you will be remembered for all time as the one who saved us from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's successor."  
  
Fudge slowly looked over his shoulder. Lucius and the other man were sitting with their backs to him, still staring at where Fudge had been moments earlier.  
  
"Sign our request. Let us finish the investigation, and we promise you, Minister, that we will expose Harry Potter by the end of his sixth term at Hogwarts. You can then decide what to do with him, how to administer punishment to the embodiment of evil who is right now planning his ascension into power," Lucius said, his voice even softer. "Let us finish our investigation. Let us finally bring peace to our world."  
  
Lucius stared, his face expressionless except for the faint smirk at the corners of his unaged face. His gray eyes were locked on the small reflection of Fudge provided by the silver bowl on the shelf behind his desk. Lucius' smile grew as Fudge began, ever so slowly, to walk back to his desk, an elderly hand reaching into the breast pocket of his suit.  
  
"Do I have your assurances that your investigation will be up to a respectable standard?" Fudge asked as he took his seat, twirling his quill between his fingers, and flipping through the pages of the report lying open on his desk.  
  
"We will follow all the rules of fairness, but with all due respect, Minister, we can't guarantee how useful our usual techniques may be against such a boy. He's outsmarted everyone for so long. We may need to use less conventional techniques," Lucius answered, eyeing Fudge for a reaction.  
  
Fudge stared at him, trying to read his expression. "You will use techniques that will not embarrass me, that will not come back to haunt me later, will you not?" Fudge asked, but his tone of voice indicated it was not a request, but an order.  
  
Lucius nodded. "Minister, you have our word."  
  
Fudge slowly dipped his quill into the inkbottle, and then signed his name upon the dotted line that Lucius had indicated. 


	2. Chapter 2

The front door of the Granger house creaked open and Hermione slumped into the house, barely managing to shut the door before she slid to the floor in exhaustion. Breathing deeply, she ran her hands up to rub her face, wiping away the sweat that had caused her hair, having fallen from its pony tail, to stick to her forehead and the sides of her face. She leaned back into the door, pressing her shoulders into the wood, trying to stretch her aching rib cage. "Darling, what in heaven's name are you doing?" Hermione looked up, her mouth opened as she took in raged breaths. Her mother was standing ahead of her, her hands upon her slim hips in a questioning manner. Her mother continued down the stairs until she was finally on the ground floor and smiled at her. "I went running," Hermione muttered, her tone betraying what her mind was trying to convince her of. Harry had never made a rude comment about her weight. Neither had Ron, nor had Adrienne, whom Hermione personally thought was much too thin for her own good, but every time Hermione stared into the mirror, she got a sinking feeling in her gut. No matter what Lavender and Parvati had said about her svelte figure, Hermione kept mulling over the idea of losing weight. And naturally, as the summer always posed more free time than the school year, Hermione had made it her goal to begin running at least four times a week. She developed a mantra, and repeated it to herself as she ran, thinking over and over again, "Running is good. Running is healthy. I like running." And now, as she sat leaning against her front door, her entire body exhausted and crying out that it hated running, no matter what she tried to tell herself, her hatred of the sport came through loud and clear. Her mother laughed slightly, a smile breaking across her porcelain like face. "Darling, you have a wonderful shape. I hope that you taking up running isn't because you feel you need to change how you look." Hermione's mother had a soft voice, one laced with caring and sweetness that twisted through the air and engulfed the listener. Hermione loved her mother's voice. Hermione leaned forward, pleased to notice that her heartbeat had decreased substantially, and that her breathing was almost back to normal. "No," Hermione lied, "You're supposed to exercise regularly. I thought perhaps I'd try to do that." "Is that so?" Her mother had closed the distance between them with quiet footsteps. She knelt down before Hermione, suddenly feeling that this was one of those mother-daughter moments that she just couldn't mess up. "You have never mastered the art of lying, Hermione." Hermione searched her mother's face, and grinned slightly at the innocent expression staring back at her. Her mother wasn't angry. Hermione's mother rarely got angry, well, angry with her at least. "I remember when you were five, darling, and you so wanted those cookies before dinner. Do you remember." Mrs. Granger had stood up, pulling Hermione up with her and placing an arm around her daughter's sweaty shoulders. "Vaguely," Hermione replied, suddenly aware of how horribly sticky she felt. "Ugh, I'm going to take a shower." "After you get something to drink," her mother ordered, in the same tone of voice she'd use with one of her patients. "You were determined to get those cookies, no matter what I said. So when I went to answer the door - I was expecting a package - you snuck into the kitchen and pulled the cookie jar off the table." "And it shattered all over the floor!" Hermione moaned, suddenly remembering the story. "It was that beautiful cookie jar too. the one from Italy." "You remember when we bought that? I don't believe it. We went to Italy when you were only two," her mother exclaimed, stopping in her tracks, Hermione too. "No, I just remember it was from Italy because that's what you said when you wailed about it being broken," Hermione answered, looking up at her mother with an impish grin, and then continuing into the kitchen. Hermione had always wondered why they had such a large kitchen. There were only three people in her family, and yet the kitchen was large enough to cook for the entire Weasley family, and allow them all to help cook at once. The floor was tiled in a terra-cotta tile, the orange color accented by the light brown cabinets, which had glass covered doors, the frame of each glass pane outlined in alternating blue and green stained glass. The appliances were all a reflective stainless steel, and paintings that Hermione had done while in primary school still adorned the refrigerator. The kitchen never showed its full ability except when her parents hosted dinner parties, and then the family's cooks were called in, the large stove lit, the counters lined with dishes, and the large windows lining one side of the kitchen were decorated with brand new linen drapes. "And I ran into the kitchen, wondering what on earth had happened, and there you stood, crying your eyes out, with the shattered remnants of my beautiful cookie jar lying all around you. And for years afterwards you claimed you didn't break it. You held onto that lie like there was no tomorrow." Hermione's mother smiled again as she directed her daughter into a chair at the oak table. "You never were good at lying." Hermione watched as her mother danced through the kitchen, pulling down glasses, and opening the refrigerator. As a child, Hermione had thought herself to be a princess. A princess in disguise that is. She lived in a large house, unlike those that usually adorned London's streets. It was spread out, only three stories, but a mansion none the less. They had maids who came three times a week to clean, wonderfully polite and fun maids who had taught Hermione how to make her bed, how to sort clothes, and how to dust. They were well paid too, unlike House Elves. Hermione would accompany her parents to dinners, wearing frilly lace dresses, and behaving like a good little girl should. She was quiet, reserved, always smiled. She knew how to amuse herself at even the dullest parties and never spoke unless she was spoken to. At her primary school, students would whisper about her, whisper about how much money she had, about how she was rich enough to be royalty. It had been a horrible disappointment when Hermione finally realized at the age of eight that she was just a regular girl, except she was rich. Although Hermione had long understood that she wasn't a princess, that indeed she was just a regular girl - though, she was a witch, so perhaps not so regular - she could never shake the feeling that her mother was royalty, or at least could pass for royalty. Her mother was perhaps the most intriguing person Hermione knew. Sure, she had great respect for Professor McGonagall, and especially Professor Dumbledore, but no matter whom she met, she always found herself comparing them to her mother. Her mother carried herself in such an assertive and yet subdued way. She wore her hair tied behind her head in the latest fashions. Her clothing was all designer made, and when she put on her white lab coat, and pulled on her thinly framed reading glasses, she looked more prestigious than anyone Hermione had ever seen. "Darling, I know what you're thinking. It's natural to question yourself, to question how you look. Today's world is so visual, but you cannot let that rule your life." Mrs. Granger had returned to the table, carrying two glasses of ice water. "Look at you, you are as thin as anyone would want. You know how many times Dr. Kingman has told me he thought you would do well to gain a little more weight." Hermione lifted her glass and took a large gulp, feeling the cold liquid running down her throat, cooling her chest and her neck. She quickly downed the glass as her mother continued talking. "I'm thrilled, Hermione, that you've taken an interest in exercise. but really, don't worry yourself so." This was a conversation typical of Hermione and her mother. Her mother reads too much into Hermione's actions, and then Hermione listens quietly to her mother's soft lectures. Most likely the conversation would have continued until her parents had left for work, but that morning, Hermione's all too predictable home life was in for a dramatic turn. "Darling, where's my blue tie!" Hermione's father had entered the kitchen, wearing a frustrated expression. "I can't find my tie." "Did you check your closet?" Hermione's mother asked, turning around to look at her husband with a soft but unmistakably annoyed look. "If my tie was in my closet, then I wouldn't be asking you where it was, now would I?" her father said tightly, raising his eyebrows to make his point. "Well, wear another tie, Richard." Hermione glanced away. Another aspect of her life had just surfaced. her parents. She had always wondered why her parents had never had any other children, and over the years she had came to the horrible realization that this was due to the fact that her parents rarely got along. They didn't even sleep in the same bedroom, which wasn't public knowledge, and the maids had been given direct orders that if they ever revealed this, they would seriously regret it. But, her parents had stayed married, to Hermione's relief. There had been several times that she had questioned their future together, including her third year. She had never told Harry and Ron. She had just let them assume that her third year was only plagued by challenges associated with the time-turner. She had never told them that her father had moved out right before she left for Hogwarts. That was the real reason she had spent the night in Diagon Alley. The truth was, her parent's dental practice was far too successful and far too complicated to split, thus if they were to separate, they'd have to work with each other everyday. so they had just stuck through it. "Elizabeth, I don't want to wear another tie. I want to wear my blue one." Had it not been for the doorbell ringing at that precise moment, Hermione was willing to stake her academic reputation that this quibble over her father's favorite Armani tie would end up in a ruthless row that would culminate in her parents resorting to arguing in another language, so that Hermione couldn't understand everything they were saying. "Who would come this early in the morning?" her mother asked as she stood up and strode toward the front door. "Are you expecting a package, Richard?" Hermione watched as her father raised a hand to rub his forehead in frustration. But before he answered, he noticed Hermione watching him, and smiled at her, a rather forced smile, but a smile none the less. "No, darling. besides, they wouldn't be delivering packages at 7:30, now would they?" he asked in a false voice as he turned to follow his wife. Hermione fingered her glass, staring at the rim, slightly happy that she'd be leaving for part of the summer, and slightly afraid. Her parents always fought more when she wasn't around. how she knew that, she wasn't exactly sure, but leaving for Hogwarts always plagued her with horrible visions of returning to find her parents living in separate homes, and herself, another divorce statistic. "Um, Hermione, dear, you have a visitor," her mother said slowly. Hermione turned around in her chair. "Now who would be visiting me," she whispered, and then she remembered Harry's letter. "No, he didn't come here. did he?" she whispered with mixed excitement. "Coming." She was suddenly aware that her hair was a horrible mess, that strands were still sticking to her neck, and that her body was glistening with sweat. She was wearing an old cut T-shirt and black running shorts. and she hadn't yet brushed her teeth. Her first vision of the entryway was both her parents standing side-by-side in the doorway, and then suddenly they weren't standing side-by-side, but had rushed forward. "He's fainted," her mother said in surprise. "Who's fainted!" Hermione ran forward, only to halt as her father stepped back into the house, with great difficulty, carrying an extremely pale looking Harry. "Harry!" Hermione said, raising her hands to her mouth in horror. "What's wrong with him?" "Well dear, he seems to have fainted," her mother said, stating the obvious. Hermione bit her tongue before responding. "Why?" she finally asked as she followed her father into the sitting room, where he lay Harry down on the sofa. "Darling, I can't carry the trunk, would you be so kind to do so?" Hermione watched as her father stood up, casting one last glance at Harry, and then hurried over to help his wife. Forgetting that she was waiting for an answer on why her boyfriend had suddenly lost consciousness on their doorstep, Hermione knelt down next to him and ran her hand along the side of his face. She stopped when she reached his jaw and slowly turned her hand over, so that the back of her hand was on his cheek, and then, just as her parents had always done to her, she felt his forehead. "Mum," Hermione said, not looking away from Harry, "Mum, he's sick." There was a loud clunk as her father set the trunk down at the foot of the sofa, and Hedwig hooted in protest as Mrs. Granger carried her cage into the sitting room, holding it at arm's length, a horrified expression on her face. She had never grown accustomed to the fact that wizards used owls to communicate and had always hated when Hermione let the owls into the house, or worse, into the kitchen to feed them. Hermione ran her hand down Harry's cheek again and then down his neck to his chest, where his shirt was damp with sweat. "Hmm. I hope he doesn't think that he gets free medical treatment here," her father said as he motioned for her to move, but he couldn't fool Hermione. Both her parents had been very impressed with Harry, and several times during the trip to America, while they were pretending to be the perfect example of a happily married couple, they had hinted not so subtly that they wouldn't be opposed to him and Hermione pursuing a relationship further than friendship. Mr. Granger took his daughter's place, kneeling next to Harry. After several minutes of examining the unconscious boy, he began to speak to his wife. "His pupils are dilated," he said, turning to look at Mrs. Granger, who tilted her head to indicate to her husband that Hermione was still in the room. "Oh," and then the conversation continued on in French, one of the many languages Hermione's parents spoke. Hermione scooted over next to Harry and swept his damp hair off his forehead, her eyes lingering on his scar. "I'll go get some smelling salts," Mrs. Granger finally said, walking toward the large staircase, her feet shuffling quickly over the carpet. "What's the matter with him?" Hermione asked in concern, her hand still on his forehead, her thumb gently sweeping across Harry's skin. Her father didn't look at her when he spoke, but continued to stare at Harry's face. "We don't practice this kind of medicine. sure occasionally someone has a heart attack at the office, or faints from pain, but mostly we just deal with teeth," her father said distractedly, "I'd say he has a bad bout of flu." Within minutes, her mother had returned with a package of smelling salts, and quickly Harry had woken. His eyes fluttered opened and he stared up at the three people hovering over him, his mind finally registering who they were. "Hermione," he said in a soft voice, and then smiled at her. "Sorry I didn't tell you I was coming." He winced slightly and held his stomach. "Do your aunt and uncle know you're here?" Mrs. Granger asked, placing a cool washcloth on his forehead, her eyes staring at the scar before she covered it. Harry smiled slightly, though even this action looked painful to Hermione. "No," he replied, "And I doubt they care." Hermione sat silently at Harry's side as her parents continued questioning him, asking him how he felt, exactly where he hurt, and so on. Eventually they decided that he didn't need medical attention, but could do with a good nap to let his body fight off whatever was ailing him. "We have a guestroom on the first floor, you can have that room," Mrs. Granger said as Harry sat up. "That way you don't have to worry about the stairs." Once Harry was settled in the guestroom, and Mrs. Granger had taken his temperature and Mr. Granger had decided that he really didn't need to wear his blue tie after all, Hermione's parents kissed her good-bye, checked once more on Harry, and then headed off to work, making excuses that they'd much rather stay home and make sure Harry was all right. Once Hermione was sure that her parent's Mercedes had left the drive, she ran through the house and skidded into the guestroom. Harry had sat himself up in the large bed, having propped large, amply stuffed pillows behind his back, and was running his hand over the sateen sheets. "I wasn't sure if this was your house when the cab pulled up," he said as Hermione entered. She blushed. "Well, it is." "What kind of sheets are these? They're. slippery," Harry asked, smiling at her, his face still pale. "Sateen, the only kind my mother buys," Hermione answered. "Here, you need to drink lots of water, mum said so." She poured him a glass of water from the picture on the bedside table, and then handed it to him. "Do you feel better? You're not going to pass out on me, are you?" Harry smiled and shook his head. "Good." Hermione sat down on the bed and tucked her legs behind her. "Ok, as much as I love the idea that you've shown up at my house, what's going on?" Her face was serious now that she was convinced that Harry was just suffering from the flu and wasn't going to keel over any minute. Harry lowered the glass from his lips and looked at her with a sheepish expression. "They made me get a job," he replied in a sullen voice. Hermione stared at him for a second. "Ok, so, you ran away?" she asked. She had expected a more dramatic catalyst for Harry's actions. "They made me get a job at the dump," Harry clarified. "Seriously?" "Seriously." "That is so unsanitary. No wonder you're sick, Harry! There are so many viruses and bacteria living in dumps. it's a breeding ground for everything disgusting," Hermione answered, her face bearing a sympathetic frown. "My thoughts exactly," Harry replied, slouching down in the bed so he was lying down. "And, we're supposed to be leaving for Ron's house in a few days; has he told you a date yet?" Hermione shook her head, "No. I was going to write to him today. though, I didn't know how since I don't have an owl. I really should get one, Harry, it would be the most practical thing to do. But, as you're here, I suppose I could just use Hedwig. But what if you hadn't shown up, I'd have had no way of contacting Ron, and then I'd have to brave the horrors of ringing you, and ask you if you could write Ron for me," Hermione would have continued to ramble on, but Harry had shut his eyes. "Are you all right?" Harry reopened his eyes and smiled, "I already have a headache," he muttered, another sheepish expression crossing his face. Hermione blushed again. "Oh, sorry. So, back to talking about you. You ran away." "I didn't want to work at a dump. We're supposed to be going to visit Adrienne sometime soon. And, well, I didn't want to work at a dump," Harry repeated. Hermione laughed. "I don't blame you. I'll owl Ron today and ask when his dad can get us a port-key. Have you heard from Adrienne at all?" "She owled me yesterday to give me the dates of the Dueling Championships. They're in Guatemala. She said that Professor Hartel can get us tickets." Hermione's face brightened. "That would be such a wonderful experience, Harry! The International Dueling Championships! We could see the best duelers in the world, and pick up a few tricks for next year. Think how beneficial that would be. What an exciting learning experience!" "I was kind of going for the vacation experience, myself," Harry replied. Hermione glared at him. "That too," she conceded. "Well then, that's settled. We'll go to Guatemala." The two sat quietly for a moment, Harry staring up at Hermione, and Hermione suddenly feeling very self-conscious. "Dare I ask what you were doing before I arrived, because - " Harry wasn't able to finish his sentence, which he had tried so carefully to word. "Do not say anything! I was out running," Hermione snapped, crossing her arms before her. As ordered, Harry didn't say anything, but just stared at Hermione with an amused expression. "You need to sleep, and I'm going to go get cleaned up. I'll be back shortly." * * * * * Harry spent most of the day sleeping, and each time he woke up, he woke up to Hermione's smiling face, whether she was working on her holiday assignments, or writing to Ron, or waiting with a bowl of chicken noodle soup. During the times that he was awake, they talked about all sorts of things. whether McGonagall had ever dated, whom Dumbledore had married, whether anyone had been unfortunate enough to be kissed by Snape, what the Dueling Championships would be like, what sort of disaster Adrienne might be causing at that same exact moment. Crookshanks had made his way into the room and had settled next to Harry, having curled into a ball, sometimes purring in his sleep. After lunch Hermione sent Hedwig to Ron and then went back to watch Harry sleep. At six, Hermione excused herself and went into the kitchen to start making dinner. That was where she was when her parents came home. "Elizabeth, of all the stupid things you could do!" The water for the spaghetti had just begun to boil when her father's voice boomed through the house. "Excuse me? Excuse me? Me? I asked you first, Richard, and you agreed. You know very well that I wouldn't make such a decision without asking you." "This is going to cost us thousands, Elizabeth, thousands!" "Damn it, I know exactly how much it's going to cost. Don't speak to me like I'm a child." Hermione closed her eyes in horror and then stomped out of the kitchen. "Do you two have any sense? Have you forgotten that Harry's here?" she hissed angrily, her hands balled at her sides. Hermione had stopped in the doorway leading to the kitchen, her face was flushed in anger and embarrassment, and hanging down from one hand was the spatula she had used to stir the spaghetti sauce, which was now dripping onto the clean floor, leaving spots that looked remarkably like blood. Her parents turned around and stared at her, their expressions quickly changing from ones of anger to embarrassment. "Oh, yes, your boyfriend is here," her father said slowly, a sheepish expression falling on his face. "Does he feel any better?" her mother asked, throwing her husband a "we'll discuss this later" look and walking toward Hermione to give her a hug. "I don't know, why don't you ask him," Hermione murmured as she noticed Harry walking down the corridor toward them, Crookshanks at his ankles. He was holding something in his hand. "Ron wrote you back. I didn't know you two lived so close together," he said, an innocent expression on his face as he entered the room. Hermione couldn't tell whether he had heard the entire conversation or not, but with her parents yelling, she was sure he had heard something. He was wearing blue and white striped pajama bottoms with a matching top. Hermione had seen him in these before, as he often wore them into the common room at night. "We don't live horribly close. Hedwig must have caught a favorable wind," Hermione responded somewhat irritably, pulling away from her mother. "Well, someone looks alive now," Mr. Granger said, patting Harry's back. "Do you feel better?" "Yes, I do. Thank you both for letting me stay here. I didn't really plan on passing out on your doorstep. that just kind of happened," Harry answered, smiling at both Mr. and Mrs. Granger, who were standing on opposite sides of the room. "So." Harry was about to ask 'how was work' but thought better of it. "So. what's for dinner? Can I help with anything?" Hermione shook her head and raised the spatula. "I'm making spaghetti. If you don't want it, there's still some soup left." "Spaghetti sounds fine," Harry replied, folding the letter up and walking toward Hermione. "I'll set the table." Mr. and Mrs. Granger exchanged skeptical looks and then followed Hermione and Harry into the kitchen. "Harry, are you sure you're feeling better?" Mrs. Granger asked as she caught up with him. She grabbed his arm and felt his forehead. Then, leaned forward to look into his eyes.  
  
"I feel better, honest," Harry replied. "You're not hot and your eyes look normal." Mrs. Granger turned around to look at her husband, who was leaning against the kitchen door. He shrugged. "Well, if you're feeling all right. but you don't have to set the table, you're our guest." "I don't mind," Harry said as he scanned the glass-covered cabinets for the plates. "No, we insist, have a seat and tell us about your school year. Hermione's mentioned some interesting things since she's been home." Mr. Granger indicated a chair, and Harry, although regretfully, followed his instructions. Harry told Mr. and Mrs. Granger, Mrs. Granger who was setting the table, and Mr. Granger who was sitting at the head of the table with his arms crossed before him, about the previous year. He told them about meeting Adrienne, about the start of the dueling team, which Hermione had no doubt already relayed. He discussed where he, Hermione, and Ron would be going this summer. Hermione listened intently from her position before the stove, keeping an eye over the spaghetti sauce, which she thought she had burned while leaving it unattended earlier. Finally, both Mrs. Granger and Hermione sat down, Hermione sitting across from Harry, and Mrs. Granger, across from her husband. "So, your friend Ron has written you about traveling to America. How exactly do you plan to get there?" Mr. Granger asked as he heaped another helping of spaghetti onto his plate. Harry looked up at Hermione, his mouth completely filled with spaghetti. She smirked. "A port-key, daddy." Hermione pursed her lips in thought. "It's a normal object, like a shoe or a paper-weight. something you can hold. though, I'm quite sure you could use water as a port-key, lets say if you were jumping into a pool or - " Harry kicked her softly under the table and gave her one of his patented "you are leaving the topic at hand" faces. "You take the object and place a charm on it, so, when you touch it, you are transported magically to a prearranged place," Hermione finished, saying all this rather quickly, and then reaching for her water. "Is this safe?" her mother asked. "Because I wasn't too thrilled about this whole travelling through the fireplace idea. you could have been burned." "Perfectly safe," Harry replied, then his face darkened, "well, depending on who made it, and why it was made. but Mr. Weasley will see to it that it is completely safe." This didn't seem to reassure Mrs. Granger, but she let the topic go. "So, when is this expedition to take place?" Mr. Granger had now cleared his plate and had pushed it away from him. "Well, Ron says that we can leave tomorrow. Mr. Weasley has your fireplace hooked up to the floo-network for only tonight and tomorrow. It was the only days his friend is working, as I guess he's going to Majorca soon," Harry replied, his face buried in Ron's letter. "So, we have to be at Ron's house by tomorrow afternoon at the latest. And knowing Ron, he'll want to get to Adrienne's as soon as possible. they're kind of an item." Hermione snorted into her water. "What's so funny?" Harry asked, smiling as she wiped her face with a napkin. "If we're staying at Salem, he's going to be around that Professor Glenn an awful lot I think, whether he wants to be or not," Hermione said softly, trying not to laugh. "Tomorrow? But Hermione, darling, this is only your third day home. I did want to see you this summer," her mother said, lowering her fork to her plate and staring at Hermione. "But I'll be back, mum. We're only going for a few weeks, or at least I am. I don't know what Harry's doing. If I don't come back I'll never get my holiday work done. Merlin knows that I won't get an ounce of anything accomplished with them trooping around Guatemala," Hermione said, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. "Elizabeth, she is sixteen. She's perfectly capable of taking care of herself," her father said airily, leaning back in his chair. Mrs. Granger sighed and pushed her plate away from her, suddenly no longer hungry. "Well, I suppose, your friend competing in this dueling game is an important experience," her mother answered, her tone as if it wasn't important at all, but perhaps the dullest event Hermione could ever attend.  
  
"And educational. We'll be among the best duelers in the world, mother. The best. We can only improve by attending. Why, think of all the advanced spells and tricks we might learn?" Hermione was in her element. No longer were the up-coming Internationals about Adrienne competing; no longer was the up-coming Internationals about a vacation in Guatemala. But instead, Hermione was fixated upon the benefits that attending such a fair of dueling genius could bring upon her own technique. "And, it should be quite entertaining to watch Adrienne: It's going to be really crowded, and, well, she really isn't a people person," Harry added, taking in Hermione's serene face with surprise. "Oh yes, and watching Adrienne will be fun too," Hermione added as an after thought. * * * * * After dinner, Hermione left to go begin packing her trunk, leaving Harry with her parents, who were now quizzing him about Quidditch and what it was like to fly on a broom, as Hermione never told them anything exciting about broom flying. Crookshanks had followed Hermione, and watched with growing suspicion as she began to neatly stack shorts and T-shirts atop her bed. His worst fears were confirmed when she opened her closet door, pulled out her school trunk, and began to pile her clothes into the corner, taking care to make sure that her packing wouldn't leave any unsightly creases when she arrived at Salem. When she neglected to pick up his bag of cat food and place it in along with the school texts she was bringing, Crookshanks let out a loud meow of protest, and stood up in alarm. "Crookshanks, you can't come with," Hermione cooed, reaching forward to stroke his head. "Going to Guatemala isn't going to be something you'd like. What would I do if you got lost?" Crookshanks didn't seem impressed with her reasoning. Hermione picked the big cat up and placed him in her lap, holding his scrunched face before hers. His nose was wrinkled up as if he had smelt something putrid, as was his way of displaying his displeasure with one of her decisions. "We're going to go visit Adrienne. You wouldn't want to come, because she lives at the school. which means she gets to use her magic during the summer, which means, she'll likely want to practice transfiguring you." Hermione said this very nonchalantly, as if she were just mentioning it in conversation. though her real intentions were to frighten Crookshanks and make him happy he wasn't coming along. Crookshanks looked at her for a second and then bristled slightly as if the very thought of spending more time than necessary with Adrienne was more than he could stand. "Knew you'd see it my way," Hermione said as she lowered Crookshanks to the ground and stared into the trunk, wondering exactly what she was forgetting this time. Last summer she forgot toothpaste; she hoped what ever she was forgetting this summer would be as easy to replace. She was just closing her trunk when there was a knock on her door, and then it creaked open, Harry's head appearing in the crack. "What, finally escape my parents?" she asked in amusement as he walked into her room. She expected him to take a seat or sit on the floor, or comment on her bedroom, but he didn't. "Mr. Weasley called," Harry said with mixed surprise, having stopped just inside the doorway. "He what?" Hermione asked, her eyebrows raising in disbelief. "Why would he do that?" "Something's wrong, Hermione." This direct statement took her by surprise, and she narrowed her eyes in confusion. "What do you mean something's wrong?" she asked slowly. "He wouldn't say over the phone, only said we need to leave for Salem tonight," Harry replied. Hermione slowly stood up, suddenly feeling cold. For the months to come, she'd remember this night as vividly as she had experienced it. She'd remember the feeling of foreboding, for it would surface again, and she'd remember how she didn't need to be told exactly what was the matter, she already knew it was bad: She could feel it. "How are we to get there? I don't know how to get to his house by road. so my parents can't drive us," Hermione whispered. Crookshanks hand stood up again and was rubbing the side of her ankle reassuredly. "Ron sent a vial of Floo Powder with Hedwig when he wrote you back," Harry answered, shifting his feet nervously. A silence had befallen the room, and suddenly, for a rare moment in her life, Hermione didn't know what to say. She turned back to her trunk and closed and locked the lid, pocketing her key in her jean shorts. "My parents aren't going to like this," Hermione muttered as she stood up, giving Crookshanks a kiss on the top of the head before putting him onto her bed. "You're parents opened a few bottles of wine an hour ago, Herm." Harry answered, an amused expression adorning his face. Hermione blushed with embarrassment. "Oh? Well then, they might not care at all," she answered, "Will you help me with my trunk?" Harry wouldn't let her carry her trunk, and had insisted that he alone lug it down the corridor. Hermione following behind, anxiously reminding him that he had been sick all day. "What did you pack in here, rocks?" he asked as he repositioned his hands for the trip down the stairs. "My texts," Hermione replied, following him down the stairs, her hand ready to fly out and grab the back of his shirt, as he had changed out of his pajamas, in case he were to fall forward. "Hermione!" but Harry stopped there, realizing that there was no reason to chastise her. she'd bring her homework anywhere, even to Guatemala. "The fireplace in the Great Room will work fine," Hermione directed, pointing in a direction of the house Harry hadn't yet explored, or at least she thought he hadn't explored. "How many rooms do you have?" he asked as he followed her through, quickly losing grip on the trunk. "I've never counted," Hermione replied dully. Mr. and Mrs. Granger were already in the Great Room; a fire already started in the fireplace. Harry must have told them we'd have to leave, Hermione thought. Her parents were standing on the Oriental rug in the middle of the floor, but they weren't looking at each other, but staring very pointedly in opposite directions. "There they are!" her father exclaimed as Harry unceremoniously dropped Hermione's trunk to the ground, unable to hold it any longer. Harry's trunk was already by the fireplace, a small glass vial lying atop it. "The fire good enough for you, Harry?" Harry pushed his hair out of his eyes. "Well. I think that will do. Never have prepared a fire for travel myself, but it looks fine to me," he answered. "Darling, I'll miss you dearly," Mrs. Granger said, suddenly rushing forward to wrap her arms around Hermione's neck. Hermione gagged in protest. "Let us know when you'll be back." "I will," Hermione managed, massaging her neck where her mother had almost strangled her while hugging her goodbye. Hermione watched as Harry shook Mr. Granger's hand, and then made his way to his trunk. Hermione noticed that Hedwig's cage wasn't in the room. "Where's Hedwig?" Hermione asked, rubbing her arms. She still had goosebumps, and by the look of Harry's pale face he was worried about something too. She wondered what Mr. Weasley had said to him, because Harry didn't usually express worry this quickly. "Harry's been kind enough to let her stay with us. We promised to feed her and let her go off and do all her owl-ly things. that way we'll be able to get a hold of you should anything come up," her father said, and Hermione was struck by the tone of his voice. She glanced at her mother, who had quickly crossed her arms before her, as if his statement had stung. "Oh, ok," was all Hermione managed to say, realizing something for the first time. something Harry had missed. Her parents hadn't opened the wine to celebrate or to enjoy themselves, they had done so to drown out whatever they were itching to yell at each other, hoping that they'd get drunk enough and forget they're newest problem until after Hermione and Harry left. They had done this before, and sometimes it worked, and other times it just made them argue with increased vigor. "We'll miss you darling," her mother whispered, hugging her again, this time kissing her cheek. Hermione kissed her mother back, and then went to hug her father, who bent down to whisper in her ear that he'd miss her. "Be careful," her mother said, biting her lip, something she never did. "What's going on?" Hermione asked, staring at them with a confused expression. "Well, naturally we'd be worried. you're going to Guatemala without us," her father replied. Hermione didn't say anything; she just turned around and moved to turn her trunk on its side to better facilitate putting it in the fireplace. "What are they on about?" Hermione whispered to Harry as he approached to help her. "They talked to Mr. Weasley before I did. They asked me to leave the room. I don't know," Harry answered in a low voice. "Why didn't you tell me this before?" Hermione hissed back, and then noticed that her parents were watching them closely. Harry didn't reply. He pulled the top off the Floo Powder and then looked back at Mr. and Mrs. Granger. "I really appreciate everything, thanks," he replied, smiling at them. "And feel free to owl us. Hedwig won't mind the long trip: She likes them." "She likes chocolate-chip cookies too," Hermione added. "We'll see you later, love," Mrs. Granger replied. She had taken a seat in a rocking chair and had folded her hands in her lap, rocking nervously. "Learn some good dueling moves," her father instructed. Hermione stared at her father for a second, realizing that allowing her to go was going against all his instincts. His face gave away his true feelings, and by his expression, Hermione realized that he too was worried. Harry turned around and tossed a handful of Floo Powder into the fireplace. Immediately the flames turned green. "Here you go, Hermione," Harry said, handing her the vial, and then, with a smile at the Grangers and an order of direction to the fireplace, Harry and his trunk stepped into the green flames and disappeared. "Hermione." Hermione had been watching the fireplace, waiting for the green flame to die down. She turned around, wondering what else her father had to say to her. "Listen. I'm not going to tell you much. I don't understand it, all right? It's your world, not mine, understanding it isn't my privilege." Her father, despite his red face, was talking fluently, but he didn't approach her, he continued to stand in the middle of the room, his hands in his pockets. "But no matter where you are. with the wizards or with us, you have a good head. trust your instincts, Hermione. I don't know if you'll be able to trust much else." "What?" she asked, her voice caught in her throat. "What's going on?" "Have fun on your trip, Hermione, and be careful, please," her father continued, "Go, on, Harry'll be wondering where you are." Hermione stared at her parents, a horrified feeling resting in her chest. Her parents could tell something was wrong. Mr. Weasley wanted them to leave Britain that night. "Mum, Dad?" Hermione asked again, hoping for some clarification. "Go, Hermione." Her mother was staring at her in an imperial fashion; her lips pursed together, her hands clasped in a death grip. As if under the Imperious Curse, Hermione turned around, her body moving without her mind needing to tell her to. She dragged her trunk right before the fireplace, tossed in the Floo Powder and yelled "The Burrow." And as she stepped into the green flames, as she began to spin, and as she pressed her trunk to her body to keep a good hold on it, she watched the world as she knew dissolve into a memory. 


	3. Chapter 3

Harry Potter rolled over in his bed, and slowly opened one heavy lid while hoping against hope that he had been mistaken. He hadn't been. A bright early morning sun was rising outside his window, its rays pushing through his half closed drapes and falling into the room in a long pillar of light, which just happened to fall across his semi-sleeping head.  
  
Harry opened his other eye and glared at the window, cursing himself for not having properly closed the drapes. He lay there a moment longer, and then, accustoming himself to the fact that there was no way that the sun would delay its rising just because he wanted it to, Harry flung his hand out from under his sheets, which he'd had since he was eleven, and had been a hand-me-down from Dudley's brief, but expensive, "I love Superman" phase, and swung his hand at his bedside table, wrapping his fingers around his glasses.  
  
With a deep sigh, he pulled himself into a sitting position, propping his pillow behind him as he single-handedly put his glasses onto the bridge of his nose. With an unceremonious "whoosh" of deflating air, Harry sank back against his headboard, confirming his belief that someone had drastically unstuffed his pillow. He had been so tired the night before, that when he collapsed into bed, still fully clothed, he had only half felt his head sinking through the pillow.  
  
Harry reached back and pulled the pathetically limp paisley printed pillow from behind him and tossed it into a corner, through the makeshift basketball hoop he had constructed the previous year from bits of used aluminum foil which he had so bravely rescued from the dust bin. It had proved itself to be a great stress reliever, as every time he started one of his many summer assignments wrong, he just crumpled it up and tossed it at the hoop. Though, it did provoke a dramatic rise in his use of parchment. A year after its creation though, the hoop was in poor condition, having been bent by poor shots. It also looked, as Harry stared at it, that the sellotape was loosing its stick.  
  
While most boys his age had sports paraphernalia adorning their rooms, though perhaps not made of salvaged aluminum foil, Harry seriously doubted that any child on Privet Drive had a bedroom that rivaled his own modest abode. The walls were a plain white, nothing exciting like the dramatic blue that adorned Dudley's walls, but also nothing as terrifying as the bright magenta that Aunt Petunia had selected for the master bedroom. The flooring was wood, like the rest of the house, but Harry's bedroom wasn't kept up to the lunatic standards of his aunt, and thus his flooring was dull and dusty, and if Harry didn't wear his shoes, gave horribly painful splinters.  
  
Against one wall Harry had his desk, which, out of the four drawers, only one worked. The desk was a little lopsided and Harry had propped up the shorter leg with his first year Potions text. Then there was the bed, which was covered with a dull green bedspread, which had definitely seen better days. And next to that was Harry's bedside table: A cardboard box that he had filled with bricks before closing. Harry was quite proud of his ingenuity.  
  
But the most intriguing part of his room was the middle. In the middle of his floor, atop an unraveling Christmas red and green rug, lay his large, black school trunk. It was open, and spilling over one side were several black robes, which Harry had neglected to hang up. He winced at the thought of ironing them. Trying to launder his wizarding clothing with Muggle means always ended up causing more work than it would be to just take a trip down to Diagon Alley and buy new ones.  
  
If he'd only have listened to Hermione and properly packed his clothing, he wouldn't have to spend a week trying to loosen the wrinkles. Hermione had even offered to help him pack his trunk, though only after observing, with a horrified expression, his method of packing, which included him and Ron tossing objects from across the room and earning points for every item that made it into the trunk. Harry had balked though, deciding he didn't want Hermione going through and organizing his robes, shirts, pants, socks, and definitely not his boxers. The idea just didn't sit well with him.  
  
Harry smiled as he surveyed his room. Overlooking the empty owl cage on the end of his desk; the trunk filled with spell books, wizards robes, and by the smell of it, a Potion's cauldron he had forgotten to clean out; Harry almost had what he hoped was the bedroom typical of a soon to be sixteen year old boy.  
  
Harry would have languished in bed until either his aunt or uncle came pounding at his door, calling him a foul name, and ordering him to come downstairs and begin his obligatory summer of torture - though they wouldn't use those words - had it not been for the sharp tapping sound against his window.  
  
"Hedwig!" Harry gasped and threw back the rest of his covers. "I completely forgot!"  
  
Harry jumped out of bed and lunged toward the window. With a brief tug, he finished drawing the drapes. There, on the other side of the glass, perched on the sill, was a rather flustered looking Hedwig.  
  
"I am so sorry," he moaned as he threw up the sash and sidestepped to let Hedwig in. She didn't reply, but flew straight toward her open cage and strutted in, positioning herself so her back faced him and ruffled her feather's indignantly.  
  
Hedwig hadn't wanted to take the train back from Hogwarts, so Harry had let her fly instead, knowing that she'd expect him to have his window open for her return and her cage filled with owl treats for after the journey. Hedwig, upon realizing that her cage wasn't storing any owl treats, hooted in protest.  
  
"Shh. you know they'll get upset," Harry hissed at her as he rummaged around the sock-filled bottom of his trunk for the tin of owl treats.  
  
When he had finished feeding Hedwig and had braved the horrors of his closet (Aunt Petunia had once again restocked the closet with Dudley's outgrown clothes, which were bad enough to wear under his school robes, but torture to wear alone) he made his way downstairs, making sure to clomp down the steps, announcing his arrival to the rest of the house.  
  
"That owl of yours either shuts up or goes," Uncle Vernon spat by way of morning greeting as Harry entered the kitchen. Aunt Petunia turned away form the sink to glare at him, crossing her arms, soapy from washing a frying pan, before her.  
  
"Good morning to you too," Harry replied, taking his seat at the table.  
  
The table was scattered with dishes and the sections of the morning paper that his uncle had already read. It took Harry only a matter of moments to realize that there was no place setting for him. Harry glanced up at Aunt Petunia, who hadn't turned back to her dishes. She met his stare, challenging him to complain. With a sigh, Harry pushed back his chair.  
  
"Mind the flooring: It's new," Uncle Vernon barked, not looking up from his paper.  
  
Harry glanced down at the pine flooring, which was so finely polished that his reflection stared back up at him.  
  
"Nice," Harry murmured as he walked to the china cabinet, minding his step as Aunt Petunia had used a bit too much polish and the floor had a slight slip to it. Harry pulled a plate and glass out and made his way back to the table.  
  
There was one biscuit left, a spoonful of scrambled eggs, and two pieces of bacon. Harry was about to comment on how unusually good everything looked when a quick hand flew across the table, the fingers swiping up the biscuit, dropping it atop the eggs, and grabbing the bacon before depositing the platter atop the dirty plate before the hand's owner.  
  
Harry turned, mouth half open in protest, to glare at Dudley, who had begun to shove the biscuit into his mouth. It had been two years since Dudley's school nurse had mandated a diet, and Harry had to admit that although Dudley had suffered those two years, he definitely wasn't suffering now. Dudley, sitting in a black tank, was the spitting image of what a properly bred teenage boy should look like, minus the mouth stuffed with biscuit. He had slimmed down substantially, and had added onto his body a great amount of muscle. His face had matured from his former babyish state, his pale skin now replaced with a light tan, which was only accentuated by his now strong jaw and well defined cheekbones. His blue eyes were bright and his hair was neatly styled in the latest fashion. Harry angrily turned back to his empty plate.  
  
Great, Harry thought, Dudley's miraculously transformed into the embodiment of male glory and I. Harry leaned to his side to stare at his reflection on the floor. I still look like I'm eleven. This was a bit of an exaggeration, but it matched Harry's already foul mood. Harry reached up and rubbed his temples, realizing that he suddenly had a headache. This, coupled with his rumbling stomach, didn't do anything for his already depressing day.  
  
"I think I'll just have some cereal," he mumbled as he opened the pantry door. Aunt Petunia slammed it shut from behind him.  
  
"I think not," she responded, "If you can't get up at a reasonable time to eat with us, then you don't eat breakfast at all." Her face was pale and her jaw set.  
  
"But, I'm hungry," Harry responded, not believing his ears.  
  
"No time to eat anyway, you're to start today. I'll drop you off on the way to the factory."  
  
Uncle Vernon's comment made Harry completely forget about his hunger pains as he had the funny feeling that his stomach had just liquefied.  
  
"What?" he asked as he spun around to face his uncle, a mountain of dread building where his stomach was supposed to be.  
  
"Your job, it's time you started earning your keep. You start today," Uncle Vernon replied over his newspaper, a small smirk playing on the corners of his mouth.  
  
"It's right up your alley, Harry, matches your abilities perfectly," laughed Dudley, his blue eyes sparkling maliciously.  
  
"I can't have a job!" Harry replied, a slight twinge of desperation in his voice.  
  
"How does helping at the dump sound? Big money there!" Dudley screamed in laughter.  
  
"I can't have a job!" Harry repeated and then glared at Dudley. "And I would never work at a dump."  
  
Uncle Vernon set down his paper, which he always did when preparing to berate Harry. Dudley smiled in anticipation, forgetting all about his scrambled eggs.  
  
"And why is that?" Uncle Vernon asked in a low voice, his eyebrows raised, and Harry had the sudden feeling that he could very well loose this argument to his uncle. "Why, can't you have a job?"  
  
But before Harry could answer, a distraction in the form of a white snowy owl soaring through the open window above the sink and barely missing Aunt Petunia, appeared. The owl gracefully swooped toward Harry, landing on his shoulder and holding out her leg.  
  
"What is this?" Uncle Vernon screamed, though he knew perfectly well. "I've had it with your ruddy owl! Wakes us up, squawks all the time, and now interrupts breakfast! It's gone!"  
  
The owl ruffled its feathers and tightened her grip on Harry's shoulder, sensing that all the ruckus was about her.  
  
"This isn't Hedwig," Harry replied, raising his hands complacently. "This one's name is Hecate; she isn't mine."  
  
Uncle Vernon didn't seem to believe him. "Dare I ask who's it is?"  
  
"My s - " Harry stopped and glanced between his aunt and uncle. Surely they knew that Harry was a twin, and surely they knew what had supposedly happened to his sister. Harry stared at Uncle Vernon's purple face and decided that this wasn't the time to play family reunion. "My friend's," Harry replied, smiling stupidly and nodding his head.  
  
Uncle Vernon didn't look very happy, but before he could think of something to yell back at Harry, Harry had already removed the letter from Hecate's leg, pocketed it, and motioned for her to leave. The owl leapt into the air and flew right toward Aunt Petunia, who screamed and ducked, and Hecate flew out the window.  
  
"All nonsense, using birds to carry messages. It's lunacy I tell you!" Uncle Vernon exclaimed, turning his attention to Aunt Petunia, who had gone, if possible, even paler and was holding a hand to her chest and breathing heavily. "Well, there'll be no more nonsense today. Boy, get up to your room and change. We'll need to leave soon if I'm to drop you off at the dump and not be late to the factory."  
  
Dudley burst into laughter again, and had to lower his head to the table in order to breathe.  
  
"Boy! I don't expect to tell you again!" Uncle Vernon shouted at Harry, who hadn't moved.  
  
"I told you, I can't work this summer," Harry replied. "And if you refuse to feed me," he continued, turning to Aunt Petunia, "that's fine. I'll just find a better way to eat until I leave."  
  
"Did you not hear me, boy?" Uncle Vernon had stood up, puffed his chest out in anger, and balled his fists at his side. Harry noticed that Uncle Vernon's left eye was beginning to twitch also.  
  
"I heard you," Harry replied, meeting Uncle Vernon's stare and feeling his courage fail, but he stood his ground. "I'm not staying here this summer. I'll be leaving for my friend Ron's house; you know, the one who's dad blew up your living room?" Harry watched Uncle Vernon's face as fear trickled across it. "Then I'm meeting my girlfriend Hermione, the one who took me to America last summer - you remember - and us three are going visiting."  
  
"You will do nothing of the sort!" Uncle Vernon shouted, regaining his composure, his nostrils flaring.  
  
Harry stared at his uncle, suddenly remembering how much he disliked him, Aunt Petunia, and especially Dudley, even more now that he had turned into a walking underwear model. Harry raised a hand to his stomach and cursed himself for thinking such a horrifying thought. If he ever saw Dudley less than half dressed, he'd go blind.  
  
Uncle Vernon, taking Harry's silence for submissiveness, smirked in satisfaction. "Now, boy, get up to your room and change. There will be no more talk of your kind. There will be no more talk of you traveling."  
  
Harry blinked but didn't reply; instead he walked forward, around his Uncle Vernon, and then clumped up the stairwell.  
  
"You need to take a firm hand with delinquents, Petunia." Harry could hear Uncle Vernon's voice wafting up the stairs. "I've always said if we just showed him who's boss, we'd get better behavior out of him."  
  
Harry grunted at this remark and pushed his door open. Hedwig turned as he entered, her eyes still narrowed in anger at him for forgetting to open the window. Harry clicked his tongue at her, and she turned back to face the corner, not ready to allow him to be graced by her presence just quite yet. Harry, kicking off his shoes, sat down on his bed, and ran a hand through his hair.  
  
"Fine, I'll go today. But tomorrow, Hedwig, tomorrow we'll leave," he murmured, sliding off the bed and kneeling by his trunk.  
  
Hedwig slowly turned around, wondering exactly what he was proposing. She watched through her beady eyes as Harry rummaged through his trunk and then pulled out his small money pouch. He had exchanged money at Gringotts while in America, asking for sterling instead of dollars. He had decided it would be beneficial to have some money for when he returned back to Privet Drive, exactly for this occasion.  
  
By the time Harry returned to the kitchen, Aunt Petunia had already finished dishes and was smoothing a new tablecloth over the table, every once in a while looking up to glare at him through narrowed eyes.  
  
"I made you a lunch," she said as if it pained her to admit she was stooping low enough to do such a thing. "It's in the paper bag." She indicated the bag's location with a nod of her head.  
  
This was a new position on his aunt's behalf that Harry'd never expected, nor witnessed before. Since he could remember, Aunt Petunia had always refused to pack him lunches or snacks, and Harry always went hungry at school, biding his time until he could return home and eat dinner, though his portions were never exactly filling.  
  
"Um, thanks," Harry answered as he picked up the light bag from the counter and peered into it. A small, bruised apple and half a peanut-butter sandwich in a baggy was what constituted his lunch. Harry knew better to complain though, and smiled again at his aunt, who was walking out of the kitchen, and then followed her, swinging the bag precariously.  
  
"Boy, you ready?" came Uncle Vernon's gruff voice as Harry neared the door.  
  
"I have a sandwich," Harry replied in monotone, holding up his bag as if now, armed with his sandwich, he could face anything.  
  
Uncle Vernon stared angrily at Harry, trying to decide if Harry was mocking him or not, but decided he wasn't. Uncle Vernon leaned over and pecked his wife on the cheek and then winked at Dudley, who was leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed before him.  
  
"Come on boy," Uncle Vernon ordered as he opened the front door.  
  
"Sure you'll fit right in there at the dump!" Dudley laughed.  
  
Harry didn't reply, though he had several good quips just waiting to leap off his tongue, and he followed his uncle out the door.  
  
Uncle Vernon drove a very nice dark green Mercedes, which Harry had never ridden in. Harry paused when he realized that Uncle Vernon was indeed going to allow him to ride in the car, though, Harry noticed that the entire backseat had been lined with old towels.  
  
"You sit back there," Uncle Vernon ordered as he climbed into the car. "And don't try and pry back the towels, no sense in letting you contaminate my car more than necessary."  
  
Harry opened the door and slid into the backseat, resigning himself to the fact that he was on his way to a dump to work among piles of trash. "I've reached an all time low," Harry murmured as Uncle Vernon backed out of the drive.  
  
The ride to the Little Whinging Dump was quite uneventful, much to Harry's relief. Uncle Vernon had insisted in ignoring Harry, though he did spend the entire ride mumbling under his breath. At times, Harry could have sworn he'd heard his name, among other words, which he himself had never used. On several occasions Harry opened his mouth to comment on what a nice car his uncle had purchased, remembering clearly when Uncle Vernon had brought it home.  
  
That had been the day that Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley had grouped around the freshly waxed car parked in the drive and yelled in loud voices that were sure to carry throughout the street, how rich they were that they could buy a Mercedes. Harry, on the other hand, had used the opportunity to break into the cupboard under the stairs and retrieve his homework assignments and required books from his imprisoned trunk. Harry, though, was truly impressed with his uncle's taste in cars, and would have told him that had Uncle Vernon not glared at him through the rear view mirror every time Harry opened his mouth to say something.  
  
The dump was located at the very edge of the town, and was hidden by a well kept green fence, who's paint had been selected so it would blend in as best as possible with the surrounding greenery. Across the gated entrance was an old wooden sign that at one time had read "Little Whinging Waste Management," but the paint was peeling from the letters, so that instead it now read "Littl Whin ing Wast Man gement."  
  
"Looks like the sign could use some work," Harry mumbled under his breath as Uncle Vernon pulled up to the gate.  
  
The car rolled to a halt and Harry wondered if they had to speak to some security officer before the gates would open for them. It took him a moment to realize that Uncle Vernon had no intentions of driving through the gates at all, which was why he had stopped before them, not because of security reasons.  
  
"Well, boy. You mind the manager. I don't want to hear about you being fired on your first day," his Uncle said in a threatening voice, his eyes meeting Harry's through the rear view mirror. "And no - "  
  
"Funny business," Harry finished for his uncle, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, don't worry. I won't embarrass the proud Dursley name."  
  
Harry threw the door open and stepped out of the car. He noticed that people driving by on the road behind them were staring at Harry and the Mercedes parked before the dump. Harry politely shut the door, madly fighting the desire to slam it, but he couldn't bring himself to treat such a beautiful car that badly, even if it did belong to his uncle. Immediately the Mercedes backed away, Uncle Vernon not even glancing at Harry.  
  
It took Harry a second before he realized that he never asked when he was to be picked up. Shrugging his shoulders, he assumed that Uncle Vernon would just fetch him on his way home from the factory. Harry reluctantly turned toward the gate, his green eyes narrowing behind his glasses. With a large sigh, he began the procession toward the dump, deciding that if he was only going to be working there one day, he may as well give it his best. at least make a good impression for his aunt and uncle, to kind of make up for his skipping out on them without their knowing.  
  
Next to the gate, which Harry noticed was beginning to rust, a large man in a dark green uniform was leaning against the wall of a small shack next to the gate, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. The man watched Harry approach while straightening up and revealing his true height. Harry couldn't help but drop his jaw slightly. This man was the tallest he had ever seen, or at least the tallest Muggle Harry had ever seen. He was looming near seven feet, his head slightly too small for the proportions of the rest of his body.  
  
"Mornin', the name's Pete. You must be Harry Potter," he said, his cigarette still hanging from his mouth. Pete thrust out a dirty hand, and a lopsided smile revealing crooked yellow teeth, appeared on his face.  
  
"Good morning," Harry replied, taking the man's hand. Harry winced in pain as Pete went on to grip his hand so hard that Harry could have sworn he heard his carpels crack.  
  
"Ya don't look like the type we get a workin' here," Pete said, turning and pulling Harry toward an open door of the shack. "Ya ever done any work in the trash business?" Pete asked.  
  
Pete let go of Harry's throbbing hand.  
  
"No, I haven't," Harry answered.  
  
He was now standing in a small, dimly lit room. In one corner two fold-up chairs sat beside a wooden crate, where a couple yellowed newspapers lay scattered. On the other side was a large metal desk. There were no windows in the room: The only light coming from a bulb hanging from the cement ceiling.  
  
"Well, ya don't need to. No 'sperience necessary." Pete had taken the chair behind the desk and was rummaging around in a drawer, his cigarette still hanging from his mouth, the stench tickling Harry's nose. "Forms. ya first need ta fill 'em out."  
  
Pete straightened up from behind the desk and tossed a clipboard at Harry, who deftly caught it, owing no doubt to his skills at all those years chasing the snitch.  
  
"Got a good catch on ya," Pete commented as he walked around the desk. "Be back," he called over his shoulder as he walked through the door on the other side of the room.  
  
Harry stared after Pete for a few moments before retreating to the darkened corner and selecting a chair. It creaked as he sat upon it, and Harry suddenly had the odd feeling that any moment the chair would give out, but somehow it held on. Harry quickly filled out the form, stating his name and address, answering questions concerning his birthday, his parents, and various other necessities. He had just finished when Pete walked back in, carrying a green jump suit just like his own.  
  
"There ain't much to the job," he said as he tossed the jump suit at Harry. "That there's your uniform. Your job ta keep it clean. And mind ya, ya'll need to keep it clean. Ya forget to wash it and the stench will just soak on in. ya'll smell like it until the Lord comes to claim his glory." Pete smiled his lopsided grin again and took the clipboard from Harry. He didn't even bother to look at it before tossing it onto his desk.  
  
"Right, keep it clean," Harry answered, standing up and holding the uniform out before him. It was horribly wrinkled, and Harry had the feeling that it wasn't going to fit at all. "So, what exactly am I going to be doing?" he asked, turning his attention to Pete, who had tilted his head to the side and was staring at Harry with squinted eyes.  
  
"What's that there on ya head?" Pete asked, leaning forward to better see Harry's forehead in the dim lighting.  
  
The familiar self-conscious feeling that always overcame Harry when his scar was noticed settled itself in his stomach.  
  
"It's a scar," Harry replied, pulling back his bangs so Pete could get a better look. "I've had it since before I can remember."  
  
Pete nodded his head, his eyes still fixated on the lightening shaped scar. "How ya get it?" Pete pressed.  
  
Harry took a deep breath before answering, realizing that this was the first time in several years that he had to explain the origin of his scar. Those in the magical world never had to ask how Harry received his scar: They all knew the story like they knew their own name. Harry thought for a moment before he spoke. He couldn't tell Pete the real reason his forehead was adorned with a curse-scar. Well, Harry thought, he'd just think I'm bonkers and fire me right off, which really wouldn't be so bad.  
  
"Car accident," Harry answered, "they said I was hit with glass from the windshield. I know, I know, funny mark for a piece of flying glass."  
  
"Well, ya never know. Me sister's husband's brother's son was hit with a piece of flyin' glass. took off his whole head. Wasn' a pretty sight. Blood everywhere. and come to think of it. never think they even found the head."  
  
Harry stared at Pete, his eyes slightly widened. what a way to go, Harry thought.  
  
"Well, 'pose we should get a move on it. Introduce ya to all the men. Ya can just put your uniform on right over ya clothes," Pete answered, running a hand over the back of his neck, clearly a little put off by his own story.  
  
Within minutes Harry had pulled the green suit over the pair of black jeans and the hole-filled shirt he had pulled from his closet, and the two had made their way through the back door. It seemed that the small shack was indeed the only building on the property, as all Harry could see after he walked through the door was piles of rubbish lying in rows. Flies hovered in dense black clouds over the piles, the buzzing penetrating the air, leaving a constant ringing sound in Harry's ears. There were pools of water lying on the dirt paths between the rows, and Harry hated to think of what was growing in those pools. He made a mental note not to step in any water, thanking the heavens that Pete had tossed a pair of rubber boots to him before they walked through the door. The boots, along with the uniform, which Harry had to roll the sleeves and legs up several times, were too large, and Harry had to be extra careful as he walked so he didn't trip.  
  
Harry followed Pete, trying to listen to what Pete was saying, but he couldn't make it out amid the loud buzzing of the multitudes of flies. They walked around the rows to the far end of the dump where several men were grouped next to three garbage trucks, which were parked under make shift wooden shelters.  
  
The men looked up as Pete approached, nodding their heads to acknowledge his presence.  
  
"We got a new one today," Pete called to them, raising his voice substantially. "He'll be doin' the sortin', thataway ya'll can get on with the collectin' part."  
  
"Well, where is he?" asked a short man. He had walked forward from the group. He had dark leathery skin and didn't have the same accent as Pete. Harry couldn't tell where the man was from, but he knew it wasn't anywhere he'd had ever been.  
  
"Ed, Nate, Larry, I'd like ya'll ta meet Harry Potter." Pete stepped out of Harry's way so the three men could see him.  
  
The largest of the three men, Nate, stared at Harry and then dropped his jaw, his cigarette dropping out of his mouth and falling into a pool of water, where it fizzled slightly. Ed and Larry followed Nate's lead.  
  
"Uh, hi. Nice to meet you?" Harry said uncertainly, not knowing how to respon.  
  
No one answered; instead they doubled over in laughter, hitting their knees with their hands as if Harry's presence was some kind of joke.  
  
"Funny one, Pete. You almost had me. Where'd you find the little boy?" the man called Ed grunted in laughter. His tanned face had taken on the color of a bright tomato.  
  
"Yeah, come off it man. you know better than to try and trick me like that!" Nate chimed, tears coming to his eyes as he continued to laugh. "My heart condition just don't take surprises that kindly."  
  
"He's nothing more than a little boy!" Larry added, turning to look at Pete with an amused face.  
  
Very slowly they stopped laughing as Pete's face hardened and he crossed his arms before his large chest.  
  
"You're jokin' us, right?" Ed asked, his face returning to its normal color of finished oak furniture.  
  
"You aren't serious?" Nate said, his face contorted into a surprised grimace.  
  
"You got us a little boy to sort!" Larry exclaimed in an amused tone.  
  
"He ain't that little. Boy turns 16 in a few weeks," Pete said in defense, clearly not amused by his employee's lack of faith in his decision.  
  
Ed, Nate, and Larry sobered up at this, their faces showing their surprise.  
  
"Yeah, well, I guess he isn't that little," Larry muttered, turning to look at Harry, who had gone slightly red with embarrassment.  
  
Harry had had the crazy urge to yell out that he wasn't one to be underestimated. he'd done his fair share of hard work through his years. He didn't though, realizing that such an exclamation would be a completely fruitless endeavor.  
  
"So. I'm supposed to sort?" Harry asked, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had befell the group.  
  
"Yup," Pete answered. "See that pile over there?" He pointed to a large pile of garbade bags over slightly behind the trucks. "People throw away glass all the time, but new government orders says that no glass can be dumped. got be recycled, ya know. that knew finagled idea of savin' the 'vironment. So, ya gotta search through there before we add it to the dump piles."  
  
"Yeah, there's a pair of gloves over on the table," Nate announced, pointing to the small metal table next to the pile. "You really want to wear those gloves."  
  
* * * * *  
  
Harry soon realized why Pete had been so adamant on emphasizing that he'd need to wash his uniform. Every break Harry took, the stench of the trash followed him, clinging to the fibers of the uniform, attaching themselves to the crooks and crannies in the rolls of his pants and arms. The stench was at times enough to make him pass out, and he had all he could do to keep his consciousness. Sorting turned out to be a fairly easy task, as the dump didn't serve a large number of the town, and many people had taken to already separating their glass from the rest of the trash.  
  
Although it wasn't hard to push the trash around with a large rake, which was the easiest way to do the job: Open the bags, spread the trash along the ground, and then walk through it; it was quite hard to keep his position. He had to hunch over to better see the contents of the carpet of trash below him, and after so long his back muscles had begun to protest.  
  
At lunchtime Harry spent half the hour scrubbing his hands, unable to rid himself of the grimy feeling. Pete had reminded him that he had been wearing gloves, but this didn't matter to Harry, as gloves or no gloves, he had never felt so dirty in his life. He gobbled down Aunt Petunia's hastily made sandwich and then had turned to the apple, eating it all the way down to the core. It wasn't a filling lunch, and he returned to the pile with a rumbling stomach.  
  
It took Harry all day to search through the trash. And the only mark of his progression was the steadily growing pile of trash bags in the corner, where Harry had tossed them after he emptied them of their contents. At half past four, Pete came by with a large crane, and Harry finally realized that he hadn't spread the garbage out on the ground, but on a dusty colored tarp, which had hooks at the four ends. With the help of Nate, Ed, and Larry, who had returned with their half-full garbage trucks, the four ends were hooked to the crane and the gigantic tarp was carried away to a large compactor. From there, the blocks of trash were added to the piles Harry had witnessed when he first entered the yard.  
  
"Ya really did good, Harry," Pete said, clapping Harry on his shoulders as they watched Nate, Ed, and Larry empty their trucks onto the replaced tarp. "That there new pile ya'll do tomorrow." Pete instructed.  
  
Harry stared at the grow pile and smiled slightly. That's what you think, he thought as he made his way back to the little shack to wait for Uncle Vernon.  
  
* * * * *  
  
"That uncle of yours ever gonna come get ya?" Pete asked when he walked into the shack at half past six. Harry was sitting in the doorway, looking out over the darkening street, his uniform in a plastic bag on his lap.  
  
"He should have been here an hour ago," Harry muttered, slightly embarrassed. He had a feeling that Uncle Vernon had never intended to pick Harry up in the first place. Why would he want Harry, dirty and sweaty after doing manual labor in a dump, sitting in his Mercedes? He probably expected Harry to walk the six miles home.  
  
Harry heaved himself off the ground, his muscles beginning to ache horribly. His shoulders were hunched over, a stabbing pain in his back announcing itself every few seconds.  
  
"I guess I'll just walk home," Harry replied, "See you tomorrow, Pete."  
  
But before Harry could make it through the doorway, Pete had grabbed his shoulder, causing Harry to yelp in pain.  
  
"Ya sayin' ya goin' ta walk all the way home in the dark?" Pete asked, pity on his face.  
  
"It isn't that far, and it isn't that dark yet," Harry protested, looking away.  
  
"I'll give ya a ride. I'm a leavin' now anyway," Pete answered, grabbing a large ring of keys off his desk.  
  
"No, really, it's all right," Harry said, turning around. His aunt and uncle would not be happy if they found out he had been given a ride because his new boss felt sorry for him.  
  
"Nah, I insist. Ya a good worker. Don't want nothin' ta happen ta ya."  
  
Harry tried to protest but Pete wouldn't hear of it, and instead just steered him out the door, taking a second to lock it behind them, and then pushed Harry toward the beat up car parked on the side of the road.  
  
"Now, what street is it again?" Pete asked as he started up the car, which groaned in protest.  
  
"Number Four Privet Drive," Harry instructed, tensing up as the car pulled out onto the street, shaking horribly.  
  
"I remember that drive, used to run that route when I was a youngin'," Pete said, jerking the wheel as he changed lanes.  
  
Harry tightened his grip on his seatbelt, suddenly reminded of the Knight Bus. Pete drove no better than the Knight Bus driver, Ernie. Harry thought that the Knight Bus safer though, as anything in its path would jump out of the way to avoid an accident. That wasn't the same with Pete's car, and Harry was half convinced that sooner or later they'd skip the curb and take a building head on. It was to his amazement that they pulled up to the pristine house on the lot of Number Four.  
  
"There ya go, Harry," Pete said as he put the car into park. He turned to smile as Harry undid his seatbelt.  
  
"Thanks for the ride, Pete. I really appreciate it," Harry said, his voice slightly wavery.  
  
"Ya, no problem. See ya tomorrow," Pete responded in a cheery tone, smiling at him.  
  
"Yeah, tomorrow," Harry replied, opening the door and stepping out. Just as he shut it, Pete shifted gears and the car roared away.  
  
Privet Drive was empty, Pete's speeding car the only one on the street. Harry stood there for several minutes, watching the sun move toward the horizon. Then, when his hunger pains grew to be too much, Harry walked over to the dust bin on the side of the house and tossed in his uniform, making sure the bag around it was tightly closed.  
  
Harry would have gone straight into the house and chastised his aunt and uncle for leaving him at the dump, but he found that the door was locked. He stepped off the front porch to peer through the front window. Through the lacy drapes, he could just make out the light blazing in the kitchen. Pursing his lips, Harry rang the bell, and then stood there for someone to come open it. He could hear the high squeal of Aunt Petunia's laughter, and the shuffle of footsteps, and then the twist of the deadbolt.  
  
"Oh, it's you," she said in a disgusted tone as she flipped the porch light on and opened the door. "You're late for dinner." She promptly turned and stomped back to the kitchen.  
  
Uncle Vernon was sitting at his usual place at the dinner table, his head turned so he could glare at Harry when he walked in.  
  
"Don't you dare come in here like that," Uncle Vernon snapped as Harry, an unamused frown on his face, trooped through the doorway, his eyes immediately going to the table to see what was for dinner. Harry didn't stop to argue with his uncle.  
  
"Boy, did you not hear me!" Uncle Vernon screamed as Harry pulled out a chair.  
  
"Yeah, I heard you. but I figured I wouldn't say anything until I ate: I'm starving," Harry answered.  
  
"The dump took it out of you, eh?" Dudley asked, a large smile spreading across his face. "Always knew you were a weak little prat."  
  
Aunt Petunia said nothing, she just sat with her nose wrinkled, her hands in her lap, twisting her napkin as if she were in pain. It seemed that Harry's, who had brought a distinct smell with him, presence in her immaculate kitchen was too much for her. "Vernon," she finally said in a pleading squeak.  
  
"You won't be eating, boy, until you go clean up. And after you shower, scrub the bathroom. You have no idea what kind of germs live in such a place," Uncle Vernon said in a low, smooth voice.  
  
Harry stared at his uncle for a moment, taking in the rising color in his face, the set jaw, and still present twitch of the eye. "Fine, then I won't eat any of your dinner," Harry snapped, standing up and stomping from the kitchen.  
  
For the second time that day Harry barged into his bedroom in a fury. His trunk was still lying open on the floor, and Hedwig was now perched in her cage facing him, her eyes round and bright, as night had finally set in.  
  
Harry breathed through his teeth, his eyes narrowed in annoyance. And then, mumbling under his breath and shaking his head from side to side, he closed the door behind him. Immediately his eyes fell on a rolled parchment on his unmade bed. It was the letter that had arrived at breakfast, and in his rush to get ready to leave for "work," Harry had been unable to read it. Now, though, considering that the rest of his night's plans entailed showering and scrubbing the bathroom, he had plenty of time to see what Adrienne had written.  
  
Harry slipped the red string off the parchment and unrolled it. Adrienne's untidy block letter scrawl quickly materialized, and Harry could make out several familiar names, including Professor McGonagall's. He unfolded the letter and began to read.  
  
Dear Harry,  
  
Hope that your summer hasn't gotten off to a completely horrible start. You guys left for Hogsmeade Station about three hours ago. Filch ended up tripping over Mrs. Norris while going down the staircase that leads to the Astronomy Tower. He's in the hospital ward having his broken legs healed. So, instead of spending some time doing work for Filch, I'm here in McGonagall's office. she keeps staring at me with this weird expression. I think she's fighting the mad desire to turn me into a newt. make the score even. But, that's not why I wrote. The International Dueling Championships are in Guatemala this year, second to last week of July. I think I forgot to tell you. If you, Hermione, and Ron want. I can get you tickets. Well, not me personally, but Professor Hartel can. Keep that in mind for when you guys decide to visit. But I have to go, McGonagall just announced that we're going to practice transfiguration. Oh joy.  
  
Love,  
  
Adrienne  
  
Harry looked up from the letter, his gaze falling on Hedwig, who had puffed herself up, and was standing on one leg, her other leg sticking out as if expecting Harry to tie a reply on. Harry smirked slightly.  
  
"Oh, so we're finally chumming back up to me, eh?" he asked as he stood up.  
  
Hedwig ruffled her feathers but continued to hold her pose, tilting her head to the side as if to question him on whether he'd be needing her tonight or not.  
  
"Just a minute," he instructed as he bent down and pulled out a quill and parchment from his trunk. He strode over to his desk and hunched over, scribbling a quick note out. It wasn't to Adrienne though, but instead to Hermione.  
  
Dear Hermione,  
  
I know you'll be getting this letter late tonight, but I really need a favor. Can you call a cab company for me? I need one tomorrow at six in the morning. 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. Please. Tell them not to come to the door, that I'll meet them. Thanks, I'll explain later.  
  
Harry signed his name and then folded the parchment. Seeing this, Hedwig flew out of her cage and landed at his side.  
  
"You need to get this to Hermione tonight," Harry instructed as he tied it to her leg. "And make sure she reads it. All right?"  
  
Hedwig, the letter now tied tightly to her leg, nipped his ear in reassurance before flying toward the window. She hovered as Harry threw it open, and then, with a trace of apprehension, he watched her fly away into the night.  
  
"Fickle little bugger," he muttered after he could no longer see her silhouetted against the dark sky, "This morning she wouldn't even look at me."  
  
Harry stifled laughter and walked back to his trunk, beginning to toss in all his belongings. He again didn't bother to pack correctly, rationalizing that if everything was already wrinkled, a few extra wrinkles wouldn't make a difference. After surveying his room and determining that he hadn't forgotten anything, he closed his trunk and locked it, and then made his way to the bathroom, intent on taking a nice long relaxing shower.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Below Hedwig, the lighted houses and streets flew by at an increasingly fast pace. Hedwig took her job very seriously, and although Harry did have the unfortunate habit of sometimes forgetting to open his window for her, she found him to be quite an attentive owner. Hedwig felt a little sorry for him. She had heard the yelling in both the morning and evening, and had heard Harry clumping up the stairs, as she had come to identify the four different clumps heard in the house. Uncle Vernon had a shuffley clump that sounded as if his ascent or descent on the stairwell was posing a horrible effort. Aunt Petunia's clump had a sharp click to it, even when she was wearing socks or slippers. Dudley's clump no longer shook the house, but it did rattle the desk slightly. Hedwig knew Harry's the best though. His clump was quick and clear, as if he was intent on making the entire house know of his progression on the stairwell.  
  
Hedwig steered to her left, her yellow eyes piercing through the night, acknowledging the various other owls who were soaring by, noticing which ones had letters tied to their legs and which didn't. She gave a quick hoot to a barn owl she knew from the Owlery at Hogwarts, and then picked up her pace. Harry had been in a different mood than usual when he had come up after breakfast, and even though Hedwig had still been angry with him, she had found herself turning around in her cage to pay attention to what he had been saying as he rummaged through his trunk.  
  
She couldn't understand everything he said. Owls didn't understand the English language fluently, but they managed, especially Hedwig, who had a large vocabulary of names in which Harry often mentioned, and could tell by his tone of voice exactly what the gist of his discussion was, even if she could only make out a few words. Just minutes ago he had said "Hermione." Hedwig liked Hermione very much, which was another reason why she was flying so quickly. Every time, without fail, when she delivered to Hermione, the girl always had some type of treat for her. She liked Hermione's treats far better than the store bought treats Harry gave her. Hermione had said the word "cookie" last summer when Hedwig had brought her a package. Hedwig was slightly unsure what "cookie" meant but she was willing to guess it meant "better food than Harry's" as that was how it tasted.  
  
As Hedwig continued her flight, her mind drifted to what Harry had been on about that morning. His voice had been slightly desperate and slightly rebellious at the same time. He had pulled out money. Muggle money to be exact. Hedwig wondered what the money was for. She thought that during his discussion with himself he had mentioned something about leaving, but she wasn't sure.  
  
Hedwig was still perusing Harry's actions when she arrived before a beautiful brick house. Hermione had neglected to mention to Harry and Ron that her parents weren't just dentists, but two of the most successful dentists in London. The Granger house was three times the size of the Dursley's, and it's windowsills were much larger, much to Hedwig's delight. She flew around the house and landed on the sill of a large bay window. Grasping the sill tightly with her claws, Hedwig tapped the glass, and then waited patiently as, with a quiet squeal of delight, Hermione Granger raced toward the window.  
  
"Hedwig?" she asked in excitement as Hedwig flew into her room, landing on the back of Hermione's desk chair. Hermione closed the window against the breezy night, pulling her robe tighter around herself, and then walked over to her desk to untie the parchment from Hedwig's leg.  
  
"I was just going to bed," she said, unembarrassed of making conversation with an owl. "You came just in time. I'm so tired, Hedwig, I'm sure I'd never have heard you at the window had you come a few minutes later."  
  
Hedwig cocked her head to the side, imitating the humans she'd seen listening during conversations. Hermione giggled at Hedwig and then stroked the top of the owl's head.  
  
"You are so funny sometimes," Hermione answered, unrolling the parchment.  
  
She walked back to her bed and collapsed onto it, waking Crookshanks with a start. He had been sleeping atop her pillow, and now was stretching angrily, clearly affronted that Hermione would dare awake him in such a fashion. His eyes fell upon Hedwig, who was still perched on the desk chair. Crookshanks dropped into a crouch and began sneaking forward across the bed.  
  
"You try and eat Hedwig, and I'll turn you into a mouse," Hermione said, glancing at Crookshanks. He stopped in his tracks and turned to look at her. She held his gaze, and then, with a depressing meow, Crookshanks turned around and resignedly took his place once again atop Hermione's pillow.  
  
"What is he planning on doing?" Hermione asked, finishing the letter and sitting up, running a hand through her hair, as she usually did when trying to understand something.  
  
Hedwig hooted in reply.  
  
"Why can't he just call himself?" she mused aloud as she stood up and walked toward her desk.  
  
Hedwig hooted again, this time with an impatient tone. Hermione picked up on what Hedwig was trying to say right away.  
  
"Oh, so the summer's off to a bad start already?" she said in a sullen voice as she bent down and pulled out the bottom drawer of her desk. She rummaged through the pile and withdrew a telephone directory from the bottom. "I'll make the call for him," she said as she scribbled a hasty note onto the back of Harry's parchment, and then tied it to Hedwig's leg. She had just finished tying the string when Hedwig hooted again.  
  
"Oh, I supposed you're thirsty or hungry, what after such a long and dangerous flight?" Hermione said sarcastically, smiling at the bird. "Come on." She picked up the telephone book and motioned for Hedwig to follow her. Crookshanks watched through heavy eyes as the two left the room, and then, deciding that he'd better make sure that Hermione didn't give the bird anything that belonged to him, Crookshanks heaved himself up and trotted along after.  
  
* * * * *  
  
The next morning, Harry's alarm woke him with a start. He sat up straight in bed and stared into his dimly lit room. Hedwig was resting in her cage; he had left the window open and didn't remember her coming home. Hedwig, upon realizing that Harry was up, flew toward him.  
  
"Good, you got to her," Harry murmured sleepily as he unrolled the parchment. He read Hermione's note through squinted eyes, and then raised his hands to his face to try and rub away his sleepiness. Then, crumpling the note in one fist, he retrieved his glasses from his bedside table, and rolled out of bed.  
  
"We have to be quiet," he whispered to Hedwig, who ruffled her feathers excitedly, and then flew back to her cage and made herself comfortable, indicating to Harry that whatever sort of adventure he was going to embark on, she was ready to go too. Harry, as silently as he could, pulled on a pair of jeans and a baggy gray T-shirt, the smallest he could find in his closet. He stuffed his pajamas in his school bag and slipped on his shoes.  
  
Hedwig watched as he tiptoed around the room, checking under his bed, in his desk drawers, and in the closet. With a steady hand he retrieved his first year Potions text from under the short desk leg, and lowered the leg to the ground, lifting Hedwig's cage so it wouldn't slide off the now sloping desktop. He latched Hedwig's cage and placed it atop his trunk. Then, thanking the stars that he had remembered to grab his Potions text, slipped it into his schoolbag with his pajamas.  
  
"You can't make a sound, Hedwig," Harry whispered to her.  
  
Hedwig resolutely clamped her beak shut and puffed out her chest to show she was up to the challenge. Harry slung his bag over his shoulder and then tied the handle of Hedwig's cage to the shoulder strap, so that it hung at his side.  
  
Harry opened his bedroom door and slowly stuck his head into the hallway, checking to see if anyone was up yet. No one was, as it was only five in the morning and Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia liked to sleep in until the last possible moment. Satisfied that no one was going to be storming into the hallway anytime soon, Harry heaved his trunk into the air, having to lean backwards to keep a good hold on it. Muttering softly about needing to build more muscles, he shuffled down the hallway, pausing every now and then to make sure that he wasn't waking anyone.  
  
Hedwig clamped her eyes shut as Harry begun making his way down the staircase. Overlooking Harry misplacing his foot on the second to bottom step and almost dropping his trunk on his feet as he stumbled forward, Harry made it downstairs without incident. Though, he had to stop and set his trunk down in the entry hall, in order to shake his hands, as they had begun to throb from holding the trunk with such a tight grip.  
  
Several minutes later, having battled with the front lock, and danced around the milk bottles set in the middle of the front step, Harry had placed his trunk at the curb. He had decided the spot the night before, realizing that this part of the front garden couldn't be seen by his aunt and uncle's bedroom window.  
  
"Hedwig, you can't make a sound. I'll be back, trust me," Harry said to her as he untied her cage and set it behind the trunk, leaving his schoolbag next to it.  
  
Harry nodded at his owl and then made his way back to the house. He paused at the front step and turned to look around the front garden. He had the funny feeling that he was being watched. His eyes roved the flower beds Aunt Petunia paid so much to keep green and beautiful. He glanced up and down Privet Drive, but to no avail. no one was there. Convincing himself that he was just nervous about being caught before he could escape, Harry bent down and picked up the milk bottles, and then walked back into the house, not closing the door behind him. Through the open door, he could keep an eye on his possessions sitting by the curb, and he could also hear if any car approached.  
  
Unfortunately for Harry, as he tiptoed back into the kitchen to pop the top of a milk bottle and withdraw a glass from the china cabinet, still trying to shake the feeling that he was being watched, across the street two men sat hunched together on number 5's drive. An invisibility cloak was pulled tightly around them.  
  
"We could just take him now," the man on the right whispered to the other, fingering his wand hungrily. "A little Avada Kedavra and he'd be an extra large paper weight. good and stiff. and dead."  
  
"Shh," the other whispered, turning his head as much as he could under the cloak to glare at him. "You know perfectly well that Dumbledore has all types of spells over the boy. Merlin, he's just radiating with protection charms and spells. Rumor has it that Dumbledore even slips stuff into his drinks at Hogwarts somehow, to give him some added protection. You can't just Avada Kedavra him here. No doubt it would backfire and take out us and the entire street."  
  
"Oh, I forgot. Dumbledore always messes with everything," the other whispered back.  
  
"Has enough damned anti-curse spells on him to protect an entire army, damned Harry Potter does," whispered the one on the left. "Let's run through the plan one more time."  
  
"Right."  
  
"We wait until Potter leaves - "  
  
"How exactly did you figure out that Potter would be leaving?"  
  
"Listen very closely, Avery, you git. Lucius has it all taken care of. He provides us with the information, we finish the job."  
  
Avery nodded. "Ok, so we wait until Potter leaves."  
  
"Then, we move in on the house," finished the other man.  
  
"And we wait again," Avery finished.  
  
Smiles overcame the two men's faces, and low chuckles emitted from their throats.  
  
"Coupled with Skeeter's reports from his fourth year, this won't help Potter's public image," Avery laughed.  
  
* * * * *  
  
At ten to six, Harry scribbled a hasty note to his aunt and uncle, informing them that he was off for the holidays and they shouldn't expect him to return. Then, placing the note on the center of the table where they'd be sure to find it, Harry tiptoed out of the house, shutting the door silently behind him. He walked through the front garden, his money jingling in the money pouch in his pocket. Harry was sure he didn't have enough money to make it to Ron's house, but he knew he could make it to London. and that was where Hermione lived. He felt a sudden pain of guilt for having not told her in the letter that he might show up at her doorstep the following morning, but he hadn't yet decided on where he was headed when he had written to her.  
  
As the minutes ticked by, Harry, sitting at the curb next to his trunk, kept shifting uncomfortably. Something was terribly off, and not just because he kept feeling as though someone was watching him. A dull, but painful ache had appeared in his stomach, and was slowly spreading throughout his abdomen. He leaned sideways onto his trunk and wrapped his arms around his stomach, as his eyes began to water in pain. He glanced at his watch, his head beginning to pound, vertigo kicking in, the world beginning to lose focus.  
  
"What's going on?" Harry whispered to himself as he noticed a black car turning onto Privet Drive.  
  
He reached back, with great effort, as bending in such a way accentuated the pains in his stomach, and pulled Hedwig's cage atop the trunk. As the cab rolled to a stop before him, Harry heaved himself off the ground, throwing his arms out to the side as he suddenly lost all sense of direction and was struggling to stay standing.  
  
"You all right?" the cabbie asked, jumping out to help him with the trunk. He was a short man, with graying hair beneath his cap. He was slightly hump backed, and when he smiled at Harry in concern, it didn't extend to his eyes.  
  
Taking a deep breath Harry replied, "Yeah, just dizzy." The cabbie didn't look like he believed him, but nevertheless, put Harry's trunk into the car.  
  
"You have an owl?" he asked in amusement as he placed Hedwig's cage onto one of the seats, and then motioned for Harry, who was swaying slightly and gripping his schoolbag to his stomach in pain, to get into the car.  
  
"Yeah, my parents are into weird presents," he mumbled, seriously thinking that if he didn't sit down right now, he'd pass out. Harry collapsed into the seat, and groaned slightly, feeling dumb. Why hadn't he thought of sending Hedwig on ahead. why had he kept her in her cage with intentions of brining her into the cab? He shut his eyes, half in pain and half in annoyment at his own actions.  
  
"Where to?" the cabbie asked as he pulled away from the curb.  
  
"75 Roper Lane, London," Harry breathed, opening his eyes.  
  
"If you're sick in my car, I'll charge you double," the man said, realizing that Harry was beginning to turn green.  
  
"I'll keep that in mind," Harry answered.  
  
* * * * *  
  
The two men under the invisibility cloak watched as the cab drove away.  
  
"You sure Dumbledore has wards up around the neighborhood? We could have grabbed him and just took him away and killed him then," Avery whispered in annoyance as he and his partner stood up.  
  
"Yeah, you try and touch him here. Our Master's been doing research on what he thinks are some of the spells on the boy. I heard him tell Lucius that if a Dark Wizard touched him while he was within the wards, the wizard would explode. Don't fancy my guts fertilizing the lawns, do you?"  
  
Avery made a face. "Well, not exactly."  
  
"Potter didn't look too well, did he?" the other asked with a victorious smirk.  
  
"I thought you said all those spells and charms and wards would protect him. Looks to me like the Nightshade is getting to him," Avery replied as the two men began to slowly cross the street, taking care not to expose themselves, as they were a tight fit under the cloak.  
  
"You idiot. Nightshade kills much faster than that. The boy isn't dead is he? Nope, but he'll have one heck of a stomach flu. Master reckons he's protected against all types of poisons."  
  
"Yeah, he ain't the boy who lived. He's the boy who won't die. just keeps coming back for more. Think he has some sort of strange and sick liking to being tortured?" Avery muttered as they finally reached the garden of number four.  
  
Avery's partner ignored his last comment. "But those spells, Avery, are specific to him." The other man glanced at the quiet house before them, a cruel grin spreading across his face. "Not to anyone else." 


End file.
